The folly of absolute dichotomies

Divide and conquer (nothing)

Divisiveness is becoming quickly apparent as a plague on the modern era. The segregation and categorisation of people – whether politically, spiritually or morally justified – permeates throughout the human condition and in how we process the enormity of the Homo sapien population. The idea that the antithetic extremes form two discrete categories (for example, the waning centrist between ‘left’ vs. ‘right’ political perspectives) is widely employed in many aspects of the world.

But how pervasive is this pattern? How well can we summarise, divide and categorise people? For some things, this would appear innately very easy to do – one of the most commonly evoked divisions in people is that between men and women. But the increasingly charged debate around concepts of both gender and sex (and sexuality as a derivative, somewhat interrelated concept) highlights the inconsistency of this divide.

The ‘sex’ and ‘gender’ arguments

The most commonly used argument against ‘alternative’ concepts of either gender of sex – the binary states of a ‘man’ with a ‘male’ body and a ‘female’ with a ‘female’ body – is often based on some perception of “biologically reality.” As a (trainee) biologist, let me make this apparently clear that such confidence and clarity of “reality” in many, if not all, biological subdisciplines is absurd (e.g. “nature vs. nurture”). Biologists commonly acknowledge (and rely upon) the realisation that life in all of its constructs is unfathomably diverse, unique, and often difficult to categorise. Any impression of being able to do so is a part of the human limitation to process concepts without boundaries.

Genderbread-Person figure
A great example of the complex nature of human sex and gender. You’ll notice that each category is itself a spectrum: even Biological Sex is not a clearly binary system. In fact, even this representation likely simplifies the complexity of human identity and sexuality given that each category is only a single linear scale (e.g. pansexuality and asexuality aren’t on the Sexual Orientation gradient), but nevertheless is a good summary. Source: It’s Pronounced METROsexual.

Gender as a binary

In terms of gender identity, I think this is becoming (slowly) more accepted over time. That most people have a gender identity somewhere along a multidimensional spectrum is not, for many people, a huge logical leap. Trans people are not mentally ill, not all ‘men’ identify as ‘men’ and certainly not all ‘men’ identify as a ‘man’ under the same characteristics or expression. Human psychology is beautifully complex and to reduce people down to the most simplistic categories is, in my humble opinion, a travesty. The single-variable gender binary cannot encapsulate the full depth of any single person’s identity or personality, and this biologically makes sense.

Sex as a binary

As an extension of the gender debate, sex itself has often been relied upon as the last vestige of some kind of sexual binary. Even for those more supported of trans people, sex is often described as some concrete, biologically, genetically-encoded trait which conveniently falls into its own binary system. Thus, instead of a single binary, people are reduced down to a two-character matrix of sex and gender.

Gender and sex table.jpg
A representative table of the “2 Character Sex and Gender” composition. Although slightly better at allowing for complexity in people’s identities, having 2 binaries instead of 1 doesn’t encapsulate the full breadth of diversity in either sex or gender.

However, the genetics of the definition and expression of sex is in itself a complex network of the expression of different genes and the presence of different chromosomes. Although high-school level biology teaches us that men are XY and women are XX genetically, individual genes within those chromosomes can alter the formation of different sexual organs and the development of a person. Furthermore, additional X or Y chromosomes can further alter the way sexual development occurs in people. Many people who fall in between the two ends of the gender spectrum of Male and Female identify as ‘intersex’.

DSD types table.jpg
A list of some of the known types of ‘Disorders of Sex Development’ (DSDs) which can lead to non-binary sex development in many different ways. Within these categories, there may be multiple genetic mechanisms (e.g. specific mutations) underlying the symptoms. It’s also important to note that while DSD medically describes the conditions of many people, it can be offensive/inappropriate to many intersex people (‘disorder’ can be a heavy word). Source: El-Sherbiny (2013).

You might be under the impression that these are rare ‘genetic disorders’, and don’t count as “real people” (decidedly not my words). But the reality is that intersex people are relatively common throughout the world, and occur roughly as frequently as true redheads or green eyes. Thus, the idea that excluding intersex people from the rest of societal definitions has very little merit, especially from a scientific point of view. Instead, allowing our definitions of both sex and gender to be broad and flexible allows us to incorporate the biological reality of the immense diversity of the world, even just within our own species.

Absolute species concepts

Speaking of species, and relating this paradigm of dichotomy to potentially less politically charged concepts, species themselves are a natural example on the inaccuracy of absolutism. This idea is not a new one, either within The G-CAT or within the broad literature, and species identity has long been regarded as a hive of grey areas. The sheer number of ways a group of organisms can be divided into species (or not, as the case may be) lends to the idea that simplified definitions of what something is or is not will rarely be as accurate as we hope. Even the most commonly employed of characteristics – such as those of the Biological Species Conceptcannot be applied to a number of biological systems such as asexually-reproducing species or complex cases of isolation.

Speciation continuum figure
A figure describing the ‘speciation continuum’ from a previous post on The G-CAT. Now imagine that each Species Concept has it’s own vague species boundary (dotted line): draw 30 of them over the top of one another, and try to pick the exact cut-off between the red and green areas. Even using the imagination, this would be difficult.

The diversity of Life

Anyone who argues a biological basis for these concepts is taking the good name of biological science hostage. Diversity underpins the most core aspects of biology (e.g. evolution, communities and ecosystems, medicine) and is a real attribute of living in a complicated world. Downscaling and simplifying the world to the ‘black’ and the ‘white’ discredits the wonder of biology, and acknowledging the ‘outliers’ (especially those that are not actually so far outside the boxes we have drawn) of any trends we may observe in nature is important to understand the complexity of life on Earth. Even if individual components of this post seem debatable to you: always remember that life is infinitely more complex and colourful than we can even imagine, and all of that is underpinned by diversity in one form or another.

The space for species: how spatial aspects influence speciation

Spatial and temporal factors of speciation

The processes driving genetic differentiation, and the progressive development of populations along the speciation continuum, are complex in nature and influenced by a number of factors. Generally, on The G-CAT we have considered the temporal aspects of these factors: how time much time is needed for genetic differentiation, how this might not be consistent across different populations or taxa, and how a history of environmental changes affect the evolution of populations and species. We’ve also touched on the spatial aspects of speciation and genetic differentiation before, but in significantly less detail.

To expand on this, we’re going to look at a few different models of how the spatial distribution of populations influences their divergence, and particularly how these factor into different processes of speciation.

What comes first, ecological or genetic divergence?

One key paradigm in understanding speciation is somewhat an analogy to the “chicken and the egg scenario”, albeit with ecological vs. genetic divergence. This concept is based on the idea that two aspects are key for determining the formation of new species: genetic differentiation of the populations in question, and ecological (or adaptive) changes that provide new ecological niches for species to inhabit. Without both, we might have new morphotypes or ecotypes of a singular species (in the case of ecological divergence without strong genetic divergence) or cryptic species (genetically distinct but ecologically identical species).

The order of these two processes have been in debate for some time, and different aspects of species and the environment can influence how (or if) these processes occur.

Different spatial models of speciation

Generally, when we consider the spatial models for speciation we divide these into distinct categories based on the physical distance of populations from one another. Although there is naturally a lot of grey area (as there is with almost everything in biological science), these broad concepts help us to define and determine how speciation is occurring in the wild.

Allopatric speciation

The simplest model is one we have described before called “allopatry”. In allopatry, populations are distributed distantly from one another, so that there are separated and isolated. A common way to imagine this is islands of populations separated by ocean of unsuitable habitat.

Allopatric speciation is considered one of the simplest and oldest models of speciation as the process is relatively straightforward. Geographic isolation of populations separates them from one another, meaning that gene flow is completely stopped and each population can evolve independently. Small changes in the genes of each population over time (e.g. due to different natural selection pressures) cause these populations to gradually diverge: eventually, this divergence will reach a point where the two populations would not be compatible (i.e. are reproductively isolated) and thus considered separate species.

Allopatry_example
The standard model of allopatric speciation, following an island model. 1) We start with a single population occupying a single island.  2) A rare dispersal event pushes some individuals onto a new island, forming a second population. Note that this doesn’t happen often enough to allow for consistent gene flow (i.e. the island was only colonised once). 3) Over time, these populations may accumulate independent genetic and ecological changes due to both natural selection and drift, and when they become so different that they are reproductively isolated they can be considered separate species.

Although relatively straightforward, one complex issue of allopatric speciation is providing evidence that hybridisation couldn’t happen if they reconnected, or if populations could be considered separate species if they could hybridise, but only under forced conditions (i.e. it is highly unlikely that the two ‘species’ would interact outside of experimental conditions).

Parapatric and peripatric speciation

A step closer in bringing populations geographically together in speciation is “parapatry” and “peripatry”. Parapatric populations are often geographically close together but not overlapping: generally, the edges of their distributions are touching but do not overlap one another. A good analogy would be to think of countries that share a common border. Parapatry can occur when a species is distributed across a broad area, but some form of narrow barrier cleaves the distribution in two: this can be the case across particular environmental gradients where two extremes are preferred over the middle.

The main difference between paraptry and allopatry is the allowance of a ‘hybrid zone’. This is the region between the two populations which may not be a complete isolating barrier (unlike the space between allopatric populations). The strength of the barrier (and thus the amount of hybridisation and gene flow across the two populations) is often determined by the strength of the selective pressure (e.g. how unfit hybrids are). Paraptry is expected to reduce the rate and likelihood of speciation occurring as some (even if reduced) gene flow across populations is reduces the amount of genetic differentiation between those populations: however, speciation can still occur.

Parapatric speciation across a thermocline.jpg
An example of parapatric species across an environment gradient (in this case, a temperature gradient along the ocean coastline). Left: We have two main species (red and green fish) which are adapted to either hotter or colder temperatures (red and green in the gradient), respectively. A small zone of overlap exists where hybrid fish (yellow) occur due to intermediate temperature. Right: How the temperature varies across the system, forming a steep gradient between hot and cold waters.

Related to this are peripatric populations. This differs from parapatry only slightly in that one population is an original ‘source’ population and the other is a ‘peripheral’ population. This can happen from a new population becoming founded from the source by a rare dispersal event, generating a new (but isolated) population which may diverge independently of the source. Alternatively, peripatric populations can be formed when the broad, original distribution of the species is reduced during a population contraction, and a remnant piece of the distribution becomes fragmented and ‘left behind’ in the process, isolated from the main body. Speciation can occur following similar processes of allopatric speciation if gene flow is entirely interrupted or paraptric if it is significantly reduced but still present.

Peripatric distributions.jpg
The two main ways peripatric species can form. Left: The dispersal method. In this example, there is a central ‘source’ population (orange birds on the main island), which holds most of the distribution. However, occasionally (more frequently than in the allopatric example above) birds can disperse over to the smaller island, forming a (mostly) independent secondary population. If the gene flow between this population and the central population doesn’t overwhelm the divergence between the two populations (due to selection and drift), then a new species (blue birds) can form despite the gene flow. Right: The range contraction method. In this example, we start with a single widespread population (blue lizards) which has a rapid reduction in its range. However, during this contraction one population is separated from the main body (i.e. as a refugia), which may also be a precursor of peripatric speciation.

Sympatric (ecological) speciation

On the other end of the distribution spectrum, the two diverging populations undergoing speciation may actually have completely overlapping distributions. In this case, we refer to these populations as “sympatric”, and the possibility of sympatric speciation has been a highly debated topic in evolutionary biology for some time. One central argument rears its head against the possibility of sympatric speciation, in that if populations are co-occurring but not yet independent species, then gene flow should (theoretically) occur across the populations and prevent divergence.

It is in sympatric speciation that we see the opposite order of ecological and genetic divergence happen. Because of this, the process is often referred to as “ecological speciation”, where individual populations adapt to different niches within the same area, isolating themselves from one another by limiting their occurrence and tolerances. As the two populations are restricted from one another by some kind of ecological constraint, they genetically diverge over time and speciation can occur.

This can be tricky to visualise, so let’s invent an example. Say we have a tropical island, which is occupied by one bird species. This bird prefers to eat the large native fruit of the island, although there is another fruit tree which produces smaller fruits. However, there’s only so much space and eventually there are too many birds for the number of large fruit trees available. So, some birds are pushed to eat the smaller fruit, and adapt to a different diet, changing physiology over time to better acquire their new food and obtain nutrients. This shift in ecological niche causes the two populations to become genetically separated as small-fruit-eating-birds interact more with other small-fruit-eating-birds than large-fruit-eating-birds. Over time, these divergences in genetics and ecology causes the two populations to form reproductively isolated species despite occupying the same island.

Ecological sympatric speciation
A diagram of the ecological speciation example given above. Note that ecological divergence occurs first, with some birds of the original species shifting to the new food source (‘ecological niche’) which then leads to speciation. An important requirement for this is that gene flow is somehow (even if not totally) impeded by the ecological divergence: this could be due to birds preferring to mate exclusively with other birds that share the same food type; different breeding seasons associated with food resources; or other isolating mechanisms.

Although this might sound like a simplified example (and it is, no doubt) of sympatric speciation, it’s a basic summary of how we ended up with so many species of Darwin’s finches (and why they are a great model for the process of evolution by natural selection).

The complexity of speciation

As you can see, the processes and context driving speciation are complex to unravel and many factors play a role in the transition from population to species. Understanding the factors that drive the formation of new species is critical to understanding not just how evolution works, but also in how new diversity is generated and maintained across the globe (and how that might change in the future).

 

Short essay: Real life or (‘just’) fantasy?

The fantastical

Like many people, from a young age I was obsessed and interested in works of fantasy and science fiction. To feel transported to magical worlds of various imaginative creatures and diverse places. The luxury of being able to separate from the mundanity of reality is one many children (or nostalgic adults) will be able to relate to upon reflection. Worlds that appear far more creative and engaging than our own are intrinsically enticing to the human psyche and the escapism it allows is no doubt an integral part of growing up for many people (especially those who have also dealt or avoided dealing with mental health issues).

The biological

The intricate connection to the (super)natural world drove me to fall in love with the natural world. Although there might seem to be an intrinsic contrast between the two – the absence or presence of reality – the truth is that the world is a wondrous place if you observe it through an appropriate lens. Dragons are real, forms of life are astronomically varied and imaginative, and there we are surrounded by the unknown and potentially mythical. To see the awe and mystification on a child’s face when they see a strange or unique animal for the very first time bears remarkable parallels to the expression when we stare into the fantasy of Avatar or The Lord of the Rings.

Combined dragon images
Two (very different) types of real life dragons. On the left, a terrifying dragon fish brought up from the abyssal depths by the CSIRO RV Investigator expedition. On the right, the minuscule but beautiful blue dragon (Glaucus atlanticus), which is actually a slug.

It might seem common for ‘nerds’ (at least under the traditional definition of being obsessed with particular aspects of pop culture) to later become scientists of some form or another. And I think this is a true reflection: particularly, I think the innate personality traits that cause one to look at the world of fantasy with wonder and amazement also commonly elicits a similar response in terms of the natural world. It is hard to see an example where the CGI’d majesty of contemporary fantasy and sci-fi could outcompete the intrigue generated by real, wondrous plants and animals.

Seeing the divine in the mundane

Although we often require a more tangible, objective justification for research, the connection of people to the diversity of life (whether said diversity is fictitious or not) should be a significant driving factor in the perceived importance of conservation management. However, we are often degraded to somewhat trivial discussions: why should we care about (x) species? What do they do for us? Why are they important?

Combined baobab images
Sometimes the ‘mundane’ (real) can inspire the ‘fantasy’… On the left, a real baobab tree (genus Adansonia: this one is Adansonia grandidieri) from Madagascar. On the right, the destructive baobab trees threaten to tear apart the prince’s planet in ‘The Little Prince’ by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry.

If we approach the real world and the organisms that inhabit it with truly the same wonder as we approach the fantastical, would we be more successful in preserving biodiversity? Could we reverse our horrific trend of letting species go extinct? Every species on Earth represents something unique: a new perspective, an evolutionary innovation, a lens through which to see the world and its history. Even the most ‘mundane’ of species represent something critical to functionality of ecosystems, and their lack of emphasis undermines their importance.

Dementor wasp.png
…and sometimes, the fantasy inspires the reality. This is the dementor wasp (Ampulex dementor), named after the frightening creatures from the ‘Harry Potter‘ series. The name was chosen by the public based on the behaviour of the wasp to inject a toxin into its cockroach prey, which effectively turns them into mindless zombies and makes them unable to resist being pulled helplessly into the wasp’s nest. Absolutely terrifying.

The biota of Earth are no different to the magical fabled beasts of science fiction and fantasy, and we’re watching it all burn away right in front of our eyes.

The MolEcol Toolbox: Species Distribution Modelling

Where on Earth are species?

Understanding the spatial distribution of species is a critical component for many different aspects of biological studies. Particularly for conservation, the biogeography of regions is a determinant factor for designating and managing biodiversity hotspots and management units. Or understanding the biogeographical mechanisms that have shaped modern biodiversity may allow us to understand how species will change under future climate change scenarios, and how their distributions will (and have) shift(ed).

Typically, the maximum distribution of species is based on their ecological tolerances: that is, the most extreme environments they can tolerate and proliferate within. Of course, there are a huge number of other factors on top of just natural environment which can shape species distributions, particularly related to human-induced environmental changes (or introducing new species as invasive pests, which we seem to be good at). But exactly where species are and why they occur there are intrinsically linked to the adaptive characteristics of species relative to their environment.

Species distribution modelling

The connection of a species distribution with innate environmental tolerances is the background for a type of analysis we call species distribution modelling (SDM) or environmental niche modelling (ENM). Species distribution modelling seeks to correlate the locations where a species occurs with the local environment around those sites to predict where the species should occur. This is an effective tool for trying to understand the distribution of species that might be tricky to study so thoroughly in the wild; either because they are hard to catch, live in very remote areas, or because they are highly threatened. There are a number of different algorithms and data types that will work with SDM, and there is always ongoing debate about ‘best practices’ in modelling techniques.

SDM method.jpg
The generalised pipeline of SDM, taken from Svenning et al. (2011). By correlating species occurrence data (bottom left) with environmental data (top left), we can develop a model that describes how the species is distributed based on environmental limitations (top right). From here, we can choose to validate the model with other methods (top and bottom centre) or see how the distribution might change with different environmental changes (e.g. bottom right).

A basic how-to on running SDM

The first major component that is needed for SDM is the occurrence data. Some methods will work with presence-only data: that is, a map of GPS coordinates which describes where that species has been found. Others work with presence-absence data, which may require including sites of known non-occurrence. This is an important aspect as the non-occurring sites defines the environment beyond the tolerance threshold of the species: however, it’s very likely that we haven’t sampled every location where they occur, and there will be some GPS co-ordinates that appear to be absent of our species where they actually occur. There are some different analytical techniques which can account for uneven sampling across the real distribution of the species, but they can get very technical.

Edited_koala_data.jpg
An example of species (occurrence only) locality data (with >72,000 records) for the koala (Phascolarctos cinereus) across Australia, taken from the Atlas of Living Australia. Carefully checking the locality data is important, as visual inspection clearly shows records where koalas are not native: they might have been recorded from an introduced individual, given incorrect GPS coordinates or incorrectly identified (red circles).

The second major component is our environmental data. Typically, we want to include environmental data for the types of variables that are likely to constrain the distribution of our species: often temperature and precipitation variables are included, as these two largely predict habitat types. However, it can also be important to include non-climatic variables such as topography (e.g. elevation, slope) in our model to help constrain our predictions to a more reasonable area. It is also important to test for correlation between our variables, as using many variables which are highly correlated may ‘overfit’ the model and underestimate the range of the distribution by placing an unrealistic number of restrictions on the model.

Enviro_maps.jpg
An example of some of the environmental data/maps we might choose to include in a species distribution model, obtained from the Atlas of Living AustraliaA) Mean annual temperature. B) Mean annual precipitation. C) Elevation. D) Weighted distance to nearest waterbody (e.g. rivers, lakes, streams).

Our SDM analysis of choice (e.g. MaxEnt) will then use various algorithms to build a model which best correlates where the species occurs with the environmental variables at those sites. The model tries to create a set of environmental conditions that best encapsulate the occurrence sites whilst excluding the non-occurrence sites from the prediction. From the final model, we can evaluate how strong the effect of each of our variables is on the distribution of the species, and also how well our overall model predicts the locality data.

Projecting our SDM into the past and the future

One reason to use SDM is the ability to project distributions onto alternative environments based on the correlative model. For example, if we have historic data (say, from the last glacial maximum, 21,000 years ago), we can use our predictions of how the species responds to climatic variables and compare that to the environment back then to see how the distribution would have shifted. Similarly, if we have predictions for future climates based on climate change models, we can try and predict how species distributions may shift in the future (an important part of conservation management, naturally).

 

Correct LGM projection example.png
An example of projecting a species distribution model back in time (in this case, to the Last Glacial Maximum 21,000 years ago), taken from Pelletier et al. (2016). On the left is the contemporary distribution of each species; on the right the historic projection. The study focused on three different species of American salamanders and how they had evolved and responded to historic climate change. This figure clearly shows how the distribution of the species have changed over time, particularly how the top two species have significantly reduced in distribution in modern times.

 

Species distribution modelling continues to be a useful tool for conservation and evolution studies, and improvements in analytical algorithms, available environmental data and increased sampling of species will similarly improve SDM. Particularly, improvements in environmental projections from both the distant past and future will improve our ability to understand and predict how species will change, and have changed, with climatic changes

What is a species, anyway?

This is Part 1 of a four part miniseries on the process of speciation; how we get new species, how we can see this in action, and the end results of the process. This week, we’ll start with a seemingly obvious question: what is a species?

The definition of a ‘species’

‘Species’ are a human definition of the diversity of life. When we talk about the diversity of life, and the myriad of creatures and plants on Earth, we often talk about species diversity. This might seem glaringly obvious, but there’s one key issue: what is a species, anyway? While we might like to think of them as discrete and obvious groups (a dog is definitely not the same species as a cat, for example), the concept of a singular “species” is actually the result of human categorisation.

In reality, the diversity of life is spread across a huge spectrum of differentiation: from things which are closely related but still different to us (like chimps), to more different again (other mammals), to hardly relatable at all (bacteria and plants). So, what is the cut-off for calling something a species, and not a different genus, family, or kingdom? Or alternatively, at what point do we call a specific sub-group of a species as a sub-species, or another species entirely?

This might seem like a simple question: we look at two things, and they look different, so they must be different species, right? Well, of course, nature is never simple, and the line between “different” and “not different” is very blurry. Here’s an example: consider that you knew nothing about the history, behaviour or genetics of dogs. If you simply looked at all the different breeds of dogs on Earth, you might suggest that there are hundreds of species of domestic dogs. That seems a little excessive though, right? In fact, the domestic dog, Eurasian wolf, and the Australian dingo are all the same species (but different subspecies, along with about 38 others…but that’s another issue altogether).

Dogs
Morphology can be misleading for identifying species. In this example, we have A) a dog, B) also a dog, C) still a dog, D) yet another dog, and E) not a dog. For the record, A-D are all Canis lupus of some variety; and are domestic dogs (Canis lupus familiaris), C is a dingo (Canis lupus dingo) and is a grey wolf (Canis lupus lupus). E, however, is the Ethiopian wolf, Canis simensis.

How do we describe species?

This method of describing species based on how they look (their morphology) is the very traditional approach to taxonomy. And for a long time, it seemed to work…until we get to more complex scenarios like the domestic dog. Or scenarios where two species look fairly similar, but in reality have evolved entirely differently for a very, very long time. Or groups which look close to more than one other species. So how do we describe them instead?

Cats and foxes
A), a fox. B), a cat. C), a foxy cat? A catty fox? A cat-fox hybrid? Something unrelated to cat or a fox?

 

Believe it or not, there are dozens of ways of deciding what is a species and what isn’t. In Speciation (2004), Coyne & Orr count at least 25 different reported Species Concepts that had been suggested within science, based on different requirements such as evolutionary history, genetic identity, or ecological traits. These different concepts can often contradict one another about where to draw the line between species…so what do we use?

The Biological Species Concept (BSC)

The most commonly used species concept is called the Biological Species Concept (BSC), which denotes that “species are groups of interbreeding natural populations that are reproductively isolated from other such groups” (Mayr, 1942). In short, a population is considered a different species to another population if an individual from one cannot reliably breed to form fertile, viable offspring with an individual from the other. We often refer to this as “reproductive isolation.” It’s important to note that reproductive isolation doesn’t mean they can’t breed at all: just that the hybrid offspring will not live a healthy life and produce its own healthy offspring.

For example, a horse and zebra can breed to produce a zorse, however zorse are fundamentally infertile (due to the different number of chromosomes between a horse and a zebra) and thus a horse is a different species to a zebra. However, a German Shepherd and a chihuahua can breed and make a hybrid mutt, so they are the same species.

zorse
A zorse, which shows its hybrid nature through zebra stripes and horse colouring. These two are still separate species since zorses are infertile, and thus are not a singular stable entity.

You might naturally ask why reproductive isolation is apparently so important for deciding species. Most directly, this means that groups don’t share gene pools at all (since genetic information is introduced and maintained over time through breeding events), which causes them to be genetically independent of one another. Thus, changes in the genetic make-up of one species shouldn’t (theoretically) transfer into the gene pool of another species through hybrids. This is an important concept as the gene pool of a species is the basis upon which natural selection and evolution act: thus, reproductively isolated species may evolve in very different manners over time.

RI example
An example of how reproductive isolation maintains genetic and evolutionary independence of species. In A), our cat groups are robust species, reproductively isolated from one another (as shown by the black box). When each species undergoes natural selection and their genetic variation changes (colour changes on the cats and DNA), these changes are kept within each lineage. This contrasts to B), where genetic changes can be transferred between species. Without reproductive isolation, evolution in the orange lineage and the blue lineage can combine within hybrids, sharing the evolutionary pathways of both ancestral species.

Pitfalls of the BSC

Just because the BSC is the most used concept doesn’t make it infallible, however. Many species on Earth don’t easily demonstrate reproductive isolation from one another, nor does the concept even make sense for asexually reproducing species. If an individual reproduced solely asexually (like many bacteria, or even some lizards), then by the BSC definition every individual is an entirely different species…which seems a little excessive. Even in sexually reproducing organisms, it can be hard to establish reproductive isolation, possibly because the species never come into contact physically.

This raises the debate of whether two species could, let alone will, hybridise in nature, which can be difficult to determine. And if two species do produce hybrid offspring, assessing their fertility or viability can be difficult to detect without many generations of breeding and measurements of fitness (hybrids may not be sustainable in nature if they are not well adapted to their environment and thus the two species are maintained as separate identities).

Hybrid birds
An example of unfit hybrids causing effective reproductive isolation. In this example, we have two different bird species adapted to very different habitats; a smaller, long-tailed bird (left) adapted to moving through dense forest, and a large, longer-legged bird (right) adapted to traversing arid deserts. When (or if) these two species hybridised, the resultant offspring would be middle of the road, possessing too few traits to be adaptive in either the forest or the desert and no fitting intermediate environment available. Measuring exactly how unfit this hybrid would be is a difficult task in establishing species boundaries.

 

Integrative taxonomy

To try and account for the issues with the BSC, taxonomists try to push for the usage of “integrative taxonomy”. This means that species should be defined by multiple different agreeing concepts, such as reproductive isolation, genetic differentiation, behavioural differences, and/or ecological traits. The more traits that can separate the two, the greater support there is for the species to be separated: if they disagree, then more information is needed to determine exactly whether or not that should be called different species. Debates about taxonomy are ongoing and are likely going to be relevant for years to come, but form critical components of understanding biodiversity, patterns of evolution, and creating effective conservation legislation to protect endangered or threatened species (for whichever groups we decide are species).

 

Emotional science: passion, spirituality and curiosity

“Science is devoid of emotion”

Emotion and spirituality are concepts that inherently seem at odds with the fundamentally stoic, empirical nature of scientific research. Science is based on a rigorous system of objectivity, repeatability and empiricism that, at face value, appears to completely disregard subjective aspects such as emotion, spirituality or religion. But in the same way that this drives the division of art from science, removing these subjective components of science can take away some of the personal significance and driving factors of scientific discipline.

Emotions as a driving force in science

For many scientists, emotional responses to inquiry, curiosity and connection are important components of their initial drive to study science in the first place. The natural curiosity of humanity, the absolute desire to know and understand the world around us, is fundamental to scientific advancement (and is a likely source of science as a concept in the first place). We care deeply about understanding many aspects of the natural world, and for many there is a strong emotional connection to our study fields. Scientists are fundamentally drawn to this career path based on some kind of emotional desire to better understand it.

Although it’s likely a massive cliché, Contact is one of my favourite science-fiction movies for simultaneously tackling faith, emotion, rationality, and scientific progress. And no doubt any literary student could dissect these various themes over and over and discuss exactly how the movie balances the opposing concepts of faith in the divine and scientific inquiry (and the overlap of the two). But for me, the most heartfelt aspect the movie is the portrayal of Ellie Arroway: a person who is insatiably driven to science, to the point of sacrificing many things in her life (including faith). But she’s innately an emotional person; when her perspectives are challenged by her observations, it’s a profound moment for her as a person. Ellie, to me, represents scientists pretty well: passionate, driven, idealistic but rational and objective as best as she can be. These traits make her very admirable (and a great protagonist, as far as I’m concerned).

Ellie Arroway photo
Also, Jodie Foster is an amazing actress.

I would not, under ordinary circumstances, consider myself to be particularly sentimental or spiritual. I don’t believe in many spiritual concepts (including theism, the afterlife, or concepts of a ‘soul’), and try to handle life as rationally and objectively as I can (sometimes not very successful given my mental health). But I can’t even remotely deny that there is a strong emotional or spiritual attachment to my field of science. Without delving too much into my own personal narrative (at the risk of being a little self-absorbed and pretentious; it’s also been covered a little in another post), the emotional connection I share with the life of Earth is definitely something that drove me to study biology and evolution. The sense of wonder and curiosity at observing the myriad of creatures and natural selection can concoct. The shared feeling of being alive in all of its aspects. The mystery of the world being seen through eyes very different to ours.

Headcase headspace artwork
More shameless self-promotion of my own artwork. You’ll notice that most of my art includes some science-based aspects (usually related to biology/evolution/genetics), largely because that’s what inspires me. Feeling passionate and emotional about science drives both my artistic and scientific sides.

Attachment to the natural world

I’d guess that there are many people who say they feel a connection to nature and animals in some form or another. I definitely think this is the case for many biologists of various disciplines: an emotional connection to the natural world is a strong catalyst for curiosity and it’s no surprise that this could develop later in life to a scientific career. For some scientists, an emotional attachment to a particular taxonomic group is a defining driving force in their choice of academic career; science provides a platform to understand, conserve and protect the species we hold most dear.

Me with cockatoo
A photo of me with Adelaide Zoo’s resident Red-tailed Black Cockatoo, Banks (his position was unsolicited, for reference). Giving people the opportunity to have an emotional connection (as silly as that might be) with nature can improve conservation efforts and environmental protection, boost eco-based tourism, and potentially even make people happier

 

An appeal to reason and emotion 

Although it’s of course always better to frame an argument or present research in an objective, rational matter, people have a tendency to respond well to appeal to emotion. In this sense, presenting scientific research as something that can be evocative, powerful and emotional is, in my belief, a good tactic to get the general public invested in science. Getting people to care about our research, our study species, and our findings is a difficult task but one that is absolutely necessary for the longevity and development of science at both the national and global level.

Pretending the science is emotionless and apathetic is counterproductive to the very things that drove us to do the science in the first place. Although we should attempt to be aware of, and distance, our emotions from the objective, data-based analysis of our research, admitting and demonstrating our passions (and why we feel so passionate) is critical in distilling science into the general population. Science should be done rationally and objectively but driven by emotional characteristics such as wonder, curiosity and fascination.

Not that kind of native-ity: endemism and invasion of Australia

The endemics of Australia

Australia is world-renowned for the abundant and bizarre species that inhabit this wonderful island continent. We have one of the highest numbers of unique species in the entire world (in the top few!): this is measured by what we call ‘endemism’. A species is considered endemic to a particular place or region if that it is the only place it occurs: it’s completely unique to that environment. In Australia, a whopping 87% of our mammals, 45% of our birds, 93% of our reptiles, 94% of our amphibians 24% of our fishes and 86% of our plants are endemic, making us a real biodiversity paradise! Some lists even label us as a ‘megadiverse country’, which sounds pretty awesome on paper. And although we traditionally haven’t been very good at looking after it, our array of species is a matter of some pride to Aussies.

Endemism map
A map representing the relative proportion of endemic species in Australia, generated through the Atlas of Living Australia. The colours range from no (white; 0% endemics) or little (blue) to high levels of endemism (red; 100% of species are endemic). As you can see, some biogeographic hotspots are clearly indicated (southwest WA, the east coast, the Kimberley ranges).

But the real question is: why are there so many endemics in Australia? What is so special about our country that lends to our unique flora and fauna? Although we naturally associate tropical regions with lush, vibrant and diverse life, most of Australia is complete desert. That said, most of our species are concentrated in the tropical regions of the country, particularly in the upper east coast and far north (the ‘Top End’).

There are a number of different factors which contribute to the high species diversity of Australia. Most notably is how isolated we are as a continent: Australia has been separated from most of the rest of the world for millions of years. In this time, the climate has varied dramatically as the island shifted northward, creating a variety of changing environments and unique ecological niches for species to specialise into. We refer to these species groups as ‘Gondwana relicts’, since their last ancestor with the rest of the world would have been distributed across the supercontinent Gondwana over 100 million years ago. These include marsupials, many birds groups (including ratites and megapodes), many fish groups and a plethora of others. A Gondwanan origin explains why they are only found within Australia, southern Africa and South America (the closest landmass that was also historically connected to Gondwana).

Early arrivals and naturalisation to the Australian ecosystem 

But not all of Australia’s species are so ancient and ingrained in the landscape. As Australia drifted northward and eventually collided with the Sunda plate (forming the mountain ranges across southeast Asia), many new species and groups managed to disperse into Australia. This includes the first indigenous people to colonise Australia, widely regarded as one of the oldest human civilisations and estimated to have arrived down under over 65 thousand years ago.

Eventually, this connection also brought with them one of our most iconic species; the dingo. Estimates of their arrival dates the migration at around 6 thousand years ago. As Australia’s only ‘native’ dog, there has been much debate about its status as an Australian icon. To call the dingo ‘native’ implies it’s always been there: but 6 thousand years is more than enough time to become ingrained within the ecosystem in a stable fashion. So, to balance the debate (and prevent the dingo from being labelled as an ‘invasive pest’ unfairly), we often refer to them as ‘naturalised’. This term helps us to disentangle modern-day pests, many of which our immensely destructive to the natural environment, from other species that have naturally migrated and integrated many years ago.

Patriotic dingo
Although it may not be a “true native”, the dingo will forever be a badge of our native species pride.

Invaders of the Australian continent

Of course, we can never ignore the direct impacts of humans on the ecosystem. Particularly with European settlement, another plethora of animals were introduced for the first time into Australia; these were predominantly livestock animals or hunting-related species (both as predators and prey). This includes the cane toad, widely regarded as one of the biggest errors in pest control on the planet.

When European settlers in the 1930s attempted to grow sugar cane in the far eastern part of the country, they found their crops decimated by a local beetle. In an effort to eradicate them, they brought over a species of cane toad, with the idea that they would control the beetle population and all would be well. Only, cane toads are particularly lazy and instead of targeting the cane beetles, they just thrived on all the other native invertebrates around. They’re also very resilient and adaptable (and highly toxic), so their numbers exploded and they’ve since spread across a large swathe of the country. Their toxic skin makes them fatal food objects for many native predators and they strongly compete against other similar native animals (such as our own amphibians). The cane toad introduction of 1935 is the poster child of how bad failed pest control can be.

DSC_0867_small
This guy here, he’s a bastard. Spotted in my parent’s backyard in Ipswich, QLD. Source: me, with spite.

But is native always better?

History tells a very stark tale about the poor native animals and the ravenous, rampaging pest species. Because of this, it is a widely adopted philosophical viewpoint that ‘native is always best’. And while I don’t disagree with the sentiment (of course we need to preserve our native wildlife, and not the massively overabundant pests), there are rare examples where nature is a little more complicated. In Australia, this is exemplified in the noisy miner.

The noisy miner is a small bird which, much like its name implies, is incredibly noisy and aggressive. It’s highly abundant, found predominantly throughout urban and suburban areas, and seems to dominate the habitat. It does this by bullying out other bird species from nesting grounds, creating a monopoly on the resource to the exclusion of many other species (even larger ones such as crows and magpies). Despite being native, it seems to have thrived on human alteration of the landscape and is a serious threat to the survival and longevity of many other species. If we thought of it solely under the ‘nature is best’ paradigm, we would dismiss the noisy miner as ‘doing what it should be.’ The truth is really more of a philosophical debate: is it natural to let the noisy miner outcompete many other natives, possibly resulting in their extinction? Or is it only because of human interference (and thus is our responsibility to fix) that the noisy miner is doing so well in the first place? It’s not a simple question to answer, although the latter seems to be incredibly important.

Noisy miner harassing currawong
An example of the aggressive behaviour of the noisy miner (top), swooping down on a pied currawong (bottom). Despite the size differences, noisy miners will frequently attempt to harass and scare off other larger birds. Image source: Bird Ecology Study Group website.

The amazing biodiversity of Australia is a badge of honour we should wear with patriotic pride. Conservation efforts of our endemic fauna are severely limited by a lack of funding and resources, and despite a general acceptance of the importance of diverse ecosystems we remain relatively ineffective at preserving it. Understanding and connecting with our native wildlife, whilst finding methods to control invasive species, is key to conserving our wonderful ecosystems.